Something Wicked
by Lily Malcon
Summary: Being an Account of the Curious Life of Desdemona Malfoy. AU in that main character exists. Draco is major character, but no Draco romance. Rated M for language and some adult situations.
1. Chapter One: Firstborn

**Chapter One: Firstborn**

The Maternity Ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies & Injuries was abuzz. December was the busiest month for births. March and April brought spring with them, and spring was the most passionate time of the year for couples, so the result of this passion was seen nine months later, in December.

"A boy, Madam," a Healer told one woman who was lying in her bed, her bright red curls soaked with sweat and sticking to her face and neck. The child was quickly cleaned and the Healer handed the squirming bundle to her. "A healthy baby boy."

Beside her, clutching her hand and sweating almost as much as her, the woman's husband made an excited sound. "A son! My dear, sweet Molly, we have another son!"

But the redheaded woman in room M309 seemed to have not heard him; she had eyes for nothing and no one but the seven pounds and three ounces of pure, brand new life she now held in her arms. "Perfect," she whispered; it was the only word that came to mind that seemed to carry enough gravity for what she was seeing. "You're _perfect_."

For a small moment, she appeared to be deliberating something, and then she looked up to her husband.

"Let's name him Percy."

Her husband blinked as though he'd been Confunded. "But—but darling, we already agreed on Ignatius."

"That can be his middle name," she said, turning her head back to gaze at her third son. She was not arguing; indeed, her voice was quite calm. Perhaps seeing how deeply this matter had moved his wife, the man, also ginger-haired, voiced his agreement with a wry smile.

The Maternity Ward was, of course, one of the few places in St. Mungo's which allowed Apparition. After all, the women in question were, most of the time upon entry, about to give birth, and no time could be wasted in the reception of medical assistance.

Shortly after the birth of Percy Ignatius Weasley on December the twenty-first, there was, barely audible above the din, a small popping sound; a tall, intimidating-looking man with white-blond hair appeared in the middle of the ward, supporting his equally blonde and very pregnant wife.

Nothing had to be said before a Healer rushed up to them, a kind-looking woman of about thirty with sandy hair and analytical light brown eyes.

"What's your name, Madam?" she asked of the woman, who, clutching her husband, shook her head, unable to speak.

"Malfoy," the man answered for her. "Narcissa Malfoy."

"You're her husband?"

"Yes, I am Lucius Malfoy."

The Healer nodded, and summoned a wheelchair, taking Narcissa gently from her husband.

"All right, Narcissa, we'll get you squared away in no time. You're going to be just fine. I'm Healer Kalina Roland."

As she was lowered into the wheelchair, Narcissa somehow found the will to speak, looking at Kalina Roland as though she'd forgotten something dreadfully important. "And the baby too, right?"

Roland quickly bounced back, giving her a gentle look and a friendly squeeze on her shoulder.

"Of course. And the baby too."

Narcissa gave something like a smile, and Roland wheeled her into one of the birthing rooms. Lucius followed, feeling rather helpless (an unusual sensation for him) but keeping his composure, his cloak billowing behind him.

The labor was intense. Despite magical medical care, many women were known to die during childbirth. Children with magical abilities had a strong survival instinct, and as soon as the time of birth drew near, they began to be a danger to their mothers. Old superstition said that the harder the labor, the more likely the child was to be powerful when they grew up.

Lucius sent out messages via Patronus, and before long, two women, rather darker than Narcissa but with the same sort of beauty, Apparated in.

"You!" the elder of the two cried accusingly at the other. She looked back at Narcissa. "_Why_ in the name of Merlin's sainted package is _she_ here?"

"Because I'm her sister—and yours too, Bellatrix! Have you forgotten?" replied the younger hotly.

"Well, maybe if you weren't such a Mudblood-loving shame to the family, I'd recall you a little more," spat Bella.

"Maybe if you weren't such a jump-up, hero-worshipping—"

"Shut up!" Narcissa yelled in agony, with the annoyed sort of expression of one with much more important matters with which she could be worried. She enunciated every word through her pain. "You are both my sisters. Now will you both kindly stow it before I—"

Her threat was cut off by a scream caused by a particularly painful contraction; Lucius flinched as though slapped. The argument was ended there, and Bellatrix and Andromeda each took places at opposite sides of their youngest sister's bed. As one of the wealthiest and most influential pureblood families, arrangements had been made for them to have an especially private room.

For six more hours, Narcissa Malfoy struggled through the labor and, in her seventh hour, she finally gave birth to her first child.

"A girl, Madam," the Healer who'd delivered the baby announced. "Healthy. We're cleaning her up now."

Narcissa leaned her head back and closed her eyes, looking immensely relieved. It was difficult to distinguish between the tears and perspiration on her face; this had been, by far, the most painful ordeal of her life. A few minutes later, another Healer brought in the small bundle of cloth containing the child, and handed her to Narcissa.

For a moment, the entire room was silent as Narcissa, and everyone else, stared at the little girl. Her face was flushed and she had a small tuft of brown hair on her head. They stayed like that for a long time.

"What are you going to name her?" Bellatrix asked, in a voice so soft it didn't sound like her own.

Narcissa sniffled and wiped away some of her tears. "We were thinking about Electra or Persephone," she said. "What do you think?"

"No," Andromeda said softly, shaking her head.

"Yeah, that's too Greek," Bellatrix said.

The two women's eyes met, both in a touch of shock. Had they just agreed on something? Quickly, not wanting to face that fact, they looked back to Narcissa and the baby.

"What about Desdemona?" Andromeda suggested.

"That's not tradition," Bellatrix said, referring to the Black custom of naming their children after stars or constellations.

Andromeda shrugged. "It's Shakespearean."

"I like it," Narcissa said, rather absently. She would not take her eyes off the child. She looked at her husband, who nodded. For the first time since her labor began, she smiled, and looked back at her firstborn.

"Desdemona Persephone."


	2. Chapter Two: Draco

**Chapter Two: Draco**

For the next five years, Desdemona Malfoy passed through infancy and her toddler years as the sparkle of her parents' eyes. She remained a small, slight child, and slender; however, unlike both of her parents, she sported, not white-blonde hair, but rather a sort of dark mahogany.

"She was an obedient girl, even through those terrible twos," recalled a trusted servant, Victoria Preston, years later.

And it was true; from a very young age, Desdemona sought to please her idolized parents. In return, they smothered her with love as their eldest, assuring that their daughter, whom they were convinced was simply the most beautiful and precious of girls, wanted for nothing. She spent her days at the grand Malfoy Manor accompanied by her mother and a host of servants.

Desdemona's father, Lucius, was (perhaps even more than her mother) the one person to whom the young girl looked up the most. Though he was not often at the manor, being at work either at the Ministry or for the Dark Lord Voldemort (of whom, at this point, Desdemona had no knowledge), he became highly idolized by his daughter. Once, playing outside of her parents' bedroom door, Desi heard her mother's voice, cold as ice, say, "Think about our daughter, Lucius. You can do no wrong by her. What will it do to her, if a duel with an Auror goes ill?"

At the time, she was far too young to understand anything her mother had just said, though the words, through the sort of erratic memory of small children, would haunt her in later years.

In the June of 1980, the year after Desdemona turned four, Narcissa gave birth to a second child, Desdemona's younger brother, Draco. Young Desdemona, who had craved a sibling with whom she could play, was thrilled.

"You're a big sister now, Desi!" her Aunt Bella told her, upon their arrival home from the hospital.

"That's right," added her father. "It's your job to look after Draco. Do you think you can do that for me, sweetheart?"

Elated at the idea of doing something for her father, Desdemona nodded emphatically.

"That's a girl, now!" Bellatrix laughed, picking Desi up and walking with her into the living room, where Narcissa was already sitting, holding the baby. Seeing them, Desi squirmed, and Aunt Bella set her gently down onto the plush rug.

"Mummy," she said in her musical child's voice as she trotted over to her mother and put her hand on her knee, looking up at her. "Mummy, can I hold Draco?"

Narcissa looked up from her son to her daughter and smiled, catching a glimpse of Lucius and Bella in the doorway. "All right, sweetheart. Come up and sit next to me."

Grinning, Desi did as she was told, scrambling up and sitting next to her mother on the sofa.

"All right, now, Desi, hold his head now…put your right arm under him, like this. That's a girl."

Desdemona's tiny arms now held the baby, assisted by her mother. Baby Draco had opened his eyes, which were the sort of clear gray-blue which Lucius and Narcissa had given both of their children. They gazed at each other, Desi with love and Draco with curiosity.

It soon became apparent that Draco would grow into a mirror image of his father. Besides having inherited the slate-blue eyes, his hair grew in naturally white-blond and his face was decidedly slender and pointed.

Desi, always a bright child, was quick to notice this difference between herself and her brother as he grew to be more and more like their parents, physically speaking. Every once in a while, they would go to visit their father at the Ministry. A few people, whose faces would later become familiar, would come up to them and say things like, "Who do we have here?"

"My son, Draco, and my eldest, Desdemona," Lucius or Narcissa would proudly say.

"Oh! Well, isn't that something," they'd say, or something to that effect, and then they'd look her up and down, probably wondering curiously about the Malfoy girl who barely looked like a Malfoy. Desi often found herself resenting her genes, but she could never hold only such feelings for long; even if she didn't like the way she looked, she stilled loved her family too much to resent them.

Especially Draco. By the time Desi was ten years old, she'd already established a strong connection with her little brother, and the relationship between them would only grow stronger with time.

In 1987, in the summer before Desi turned eleven, she received her acceptance letter from Hogwarts. That fall, she would begin school.


	3. Chapter Three: First & Second Year

***Author's Note*** From here it changes from third to first person. It's rather sudden, but there is a bit of a reason behind it. Sorry for any confusion. Love, the Author.

**Chapter Three: First & Second Year**

I was a Malfoy and I was damned proud of it.

I remember the day I got my Hogwarts letter. It was joy—pure, unrestrained joy. If it had been a moment any less momentous, Mum would've given me that Look. I knew the one; that icy Look that seemed to yell at me to _get a grip or so help me, I'll smack you till you bleed_. It was usually accompanied by some sly remark, something like, "Now what would your father say if he saw you so worked up?"

Well, that usually shut me up pretty quickly.

But when I got my Hogwarts letter, my parents actually celebrated with me. We had a special celebration dinner, and Dad was there, with some of his friends from work. They brought their kids, as well, kids who I later came to influence. Little Rosalie Selwyn and her parents, the Carrows, all of them. Rosalie was never very strong-willed—but that's a story for later.

I was practically glowing when we went to Diagon Alley to get my books and robes and supplies. Dad went with me, and so did Mum. I loved that they were both there; we weren't together as a family very much, even when I was little. They came together later, though. They always came together and stuck like glue when it mattered.

Draco went with us too, and he didn't let us forget him.

"Mummy, when do I get to get school robes?" he whined as I got measured. He was only six.

"When you go to school," Mum said shortly.

"When it that?"

"When you turn eleven."

"Why?"

"Because that's when wizards start learning magic."

"Why?"

Mum quirked her cold eyebrow.

"Because Hogwarts only takes well-behaved children. You have to prove you're well-behaved by the time you're eleven or they won't take you."

Draco didn't speak for the rest of the time we were out. And me, I was smugger than the cat that swallowed the canary.

First year was nerve-wracking, but otherwise uneventful, as I learned the ins and outs of Hogwarts. The logistics are confusing for someone who's never been there before. There are hallways that don't have any rooms with them, doors that open into walls, and the always-famous moving staircases. But after I'd gotten myself settled, it was uneventful.

Well, almost uneventful. That was the year I met stupid bloody Percy Weasley and even stupider bloody Oliver Wood.

They were on the train with me. I was sitting with Rosalie and she was listening to a story I was telling about how Draco had gotten in trouble for covering the bathroom near his bedroom in baby powder. I just had Rosalie in raptures when those two opened the door to the compartment.

"Hello," said one of them, an uptight-looking redhead. "May we intrude? All the other compartments are full."

Without even thinking, the laughter fled from my face and it was replaced by a cold, analytical stare. "If you must," I said, my voice cold.

"Thanks, yeah?" the other boy, a tall, slender thing with brown hair, said as he and the redhead shuffled in and put their bags into the overhead compartment.

After they sat down, there was silence for a while. I stared out of the window while Rosalie chirped away with them, discussing what they thought school would be like once they got there.

"I hear it's not so bad," the brown-haired boy said in a thick Scottish accent. "Once you get to know it, it's probably great."

"I do hope the classes aren't terribly difficult," the redhead said, sounding worried. "I would hate to get bad marks."

"I wouldn't be so worried," I said. "From what my father says, the teachers are good, if you know how to get on their good sides."

There was a pause; Rosalie blinked. "What are you names, by the way? Maybe we'll be in the same house."

"That's Oliver Wood," said the redhead, "and I'm Percy. Percy Weasley."

I felt myself stiffen, felt my shoulders go back like the ears of an angry cat.

"Well, I'm Rosalie Selwyn, and that's—"

"Desdemona Malfoy," I said, my voice so cold it barely sounded like my own. "I don't think we'll be in the same house. Definitely not. It's always been Slytherin for my family. You'll be in Gryffindor, sure enough, just like the rest of your family."

"Well, yes, I suppose so." Percy seemed taken aback. "I mean, all of my family _have_ been Gryffindor—"

"Your _whole_ family?" I said, sneering now. "That's a big claim, _Weasley_." I spat the word like a curse. "After all, when you've got as many siblings as you have, it's not really just kids; it's a whole damn litter."

His eyebrows furrowed and I saw his ears turn bright red. Rosalie stifled a laugh.

"Hey, now, there's no call for that," Oliver interjected.

"I'm not surprised. You may not look like him, but you're just like your father. All talk, no action," he said as we started to slow to a stop.

"And I wouldn't be surprised," I spat, "if you were just like the rest of the Gryffindors. All action, no brains."

I saw Wood stand up, but Percy's reflexes were sharp; he stood up and put himself between us.

"Don't fight her. She's not worth us getting into trouble our first day."

"All action," I said as they pulled their bags down and headed out; we'd stopped.

Rosalie giggled once they'd left. "You really got him, Des."

"Not like it was hard," I said.

And it wasn't. Poor Percy would prove himself more than open to my taunts, and why not? He was just a Weasley, one of those blood traitors who mingled with Mudbloods and filth. I was pureblooded; my lineage was proud and untainted by Muggle blood or that of any other such creature. I was better than him. I was better than all of them.

When we entered the Great Hall, I, like all the other children, was stunned. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.

I was in the middle of the Sorting list. I could barely contain myself for my nervousness, and stood looking around at the other students in the Hall. Finally, old McGonagall called my name.

"Malfoy, Desdemona!"

I took hesitant steps up to the stool and sat on it. McGonagall put the Sorting Hat onto my head.

"My goodness, little one," it whispered into my ear. "You've got more courage than the Malfoys have had in their family for some five generations. And nobility, too, such a deep sense of nobility and honor. Maybe you should go—"

_Not in Gryffindor_, I thought desperately.

"_Not_ in Gryffindor?" it mused. "I know many who would give their right arm to be in that house. Oh, you certainly have enough cunning to get into Slytherin, like your forbears, and such ambition! But is that really what you want?"

_Of course it's what I want,_ I thought. _It's what I've been brought up for, please, it'll make Dad so proud of me—_

"Aaahhh, I see," it whispered. "Well, there's probably no changing your mind. You've got plenty of stubbornness in here…

"SLYTHERIN!"

The yell made me flinch after all the whispering. McGonagall took the hat and I went to the Slytherin table amid a tide of applause. I barely heard the hat sorting Rosalie into Slytherin and Weasley and Wood both into Gryffindor.

Snape was the Head of Slytherin House while I was there. He was cold, and quiet in a calculating sort of way, but I was more than used to that from my home life. He quickly became my favorite teacher.

I made friends quickly during first year. Even the older kids seemed to like me; they said I was mature, and that inflated my already large ego. I inspired loyalty in them, something that was hard to do for Slytherins, whose loyalty often goes to the highest bidder or the one who offers the most power.

As soon as I got home from first year—barely off the train, even—I started babbling to Draco about how amazing Hogwarts was.

"Oh, Drake, it's the best place in the world!" I gushed. "There's staircases that move and the Great Hall looks like the sky outside—you'll love it! I know you will!"

Draco hated me for teasing him like that. I didn't mind; we never could hate each other for long.

If I thought first year was uneventful, second year was even more so. I gathered more friends—although followers is probably a more accurate term—and made sure everyone knew who I was. They certainly did.

In the middle of second year, boys suddenly realized I existed. Well, I say realized _I_ existed, but I should probably say they realized my breasts existed. I've always been sort of slender, and I never was very busty, but I did develop early and I was rather well-proportioned, if I do say so myself.

Suddenly, I was getting little notes in class. They were normal kid stuff: "Do you like me? Check yes or no." Their eyes on me made me feel prettier than I'd ever felt before, and for the first time I knew what it was to be admired by males. But I only had eyes for older boys during those days. I didn't like the boys my own age—twelve-year-old boys all seem to think they're the funniest person in the world, and that they have to repeat whatever they say if someone didn't hear them. The older boys, the fourth and fifth year boys (the sixth and seventh years were only available in my dreams, and even in those I required a bit of luck) weren't stupid or obnoxious; I didn't have to tell them to shut up—well, not as much.

I had my first boyfriend in my second year. His name was Mitchell Valen, and he was a Slytherin and a pureblood and a fourth year, three things that made him just my type. I didn't mind that he was really clingy and kind of a jerk. He was _my_ clingy jerk.

Of course, I ditched him three weeks later for a third-year Quidditch reserve player. I had a very short attention span at twelve.

Maybe if I'd just stuck that way—the charismatic princess of Slytherin House—if I'd just remained oblivious to everything, things would have been different. But they weren't.

Because in third year, everything changed.


	4. Chapter Four: Third Year

**Chapter Four: Third Year**

I went into my third year already as the girlfriend of a shiny new fifth year Quidditch Chaser. I liked the Quidditch boys; they were clever, they were cut, and they were up for competition.

I was more than a newbie now; now that I was a third year, I knew how things worked and although I was still looked down upon, I was considered a functioning member of Hogwarts society—and don't kid yourself; Hogwarts is its own miniature society.

Of course, my rank also gave me license to terrify the first and second years. Some of them ran away, mortified by my taunts; most, however, stuck around. I never knew why, but the meaner I was to these kids, the more they hero-worshipped me.

Especially Rosalie Selwyn. She was pureblood and a pretty girl, and she and I only got prettier as we got older. She had big, warm-brown eyes, brown hair in spiral curls, and a small, upturned nose. Her face was dainty, all high cheekbones and delicately curved jaw line. Those big eyes were normally looking at me in worship more than anyone else's; Rosie was a bright girl, but she knew that she didn't have enough charisma to compete with the likes of me.

I didn't mind. Rosie had her own ambitions, to be sure, but she was also loyal, a rare trait in Slytherins. She gave me her loyalty; I gave her the best chance for success, socially and post-Hogwarts speaking.

Dad had started giving me lessons in Occlumency in the summer before my third year. He said it was a useful tool to have; both of my parents were accomplished at it. When I started up in school again, he had Snape continue the lessons as a favor to him, so every week I'd go into Snape's office and he'd teach me.

"Discipline your mind," he'd say. It wasn't so hard; I'd already learned how to control and discipline my emotions at my mother's knee. My thoughts were just the next step. Snape said I was a natural.

My classes got harder as we got older, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I'd always been a bright student, and I'd been known to spend every spare moment (that is to say, not in class or with my friends/boyfriend of the week) up in the dorm, doing schoolwork or working on disciplining my mind. I was determined to graduate with top marks, and at the top of my year. How proud I would make Dad!

Again, stupid bloody Percy Weasley kept getting in my way.

We had Potions, Charms, _and_ Defense Against the Dark Arts together—even if we'd been in the same House, that was a lot. He never failed to annoy me. He was a boring know-it-all and he never spoke like a normal person. He never referred to anyone by their nicknames; it was always _Desdemona_, never Desi like everyone else.

Not that I'd have wanted Percy Weasley to call me Desi in the beginning of third year. It's just an example.

History of Magic was the one subject in which I really needed some extra tutoring. Professor Binns, the only ghost teacher at Hogwarts, was completely, utterly, and unfailingly boring. I swear his voice should've been recorded and used to put naughty children to sleep.

When I came to him in late October—which was about the time it became obvious I wasn't going to keep my marks up without doing some extra work—and asked Binns if there was anything I could do to help my marks, he lifted his sleepy, transparent eyes from the paper he was grading.

"Yes, indeed," he droned. His voice was still as slow and lifeless as when he was giving a lecture. "You can do some extra assignments, I suppose. I don't think it will harm you if you have a few from the fourth year class, bright girl such as you."

I swelled with pride at the compliment. "Yes, sir. Of course I can handle it, sir."

"Riiight. Your first assignment is to write me an essay on the Witch Burnings and how they contributed to the Statute of Secrecy. Fifteen inches, due next Wednesday, Malfoy."

"Very good sir," I said. "How many of these assignments will I have?"

He blinked. "Well, as many as you're willing to do, my girl. Dismissed."

I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and walked out, dodging none other than Percy Weasley on the way, no doubt scurrying in early for his own History class.

"Sorry, Desdemona," he managed to say.

I rolled my eyes and walked on.

Not all of Binns's essays were as easy as the Witch Burnings. He had me writing papers on the diminishing pureblood lines (nearly made me cry, that) and on the historical subtext inherent in many fairy tales and children's songs. I'm quite certain that those assignments were the only thing that kept me at the top spot in that class; otherwise, I would've failed miserably.

The holidays were coming up fast. Mum was writing nearly a letter a day, and my pretty barn owl, Anastasia, kept complaining at me to give her a break.

"I'm sorry, darling," I said to her quietly one morning at breakfast after she'd delivered yet another letter in my mother's delicate script.

It said the usual:

_Dearest Desdemona,_

_I'm so sad that we can't be together for your birthday and Christmas. Are you quite sure you don't want to come home? Your father and Draco both miss you terribly, and can't wait until they next see you._

_Draco is terribly worried about you, Desi. He thinks you don't love him anymore. Dear little Rosalie is also going home for the holiday, and we could invite them over._

_Do write back to me soon, darling. I hope you change your mind. Dad and Draco both send their love._

_Yours,_

_Mum_

With an exaggerated sigh of frustration, I reached into my bag and took out a quill, some ink, and a fresh piece of parchment.

_Dear Mum,_ I wrote,

_I am sorry that I won't be home for the holiday, but I do want to stay and work on my studies. Not to worry, though; before you know it, it'll be the summer and I'll be home again. I'll be quite comfortable here over the break, and I hear it's beautiful at Christmastime._

_Tell Draco not to worry about me. I'll be home for the summer, and in another couple of years, he'll be here with me! But please, Mum, stop trying to change my mind. It's only one year; I promise I'll come home for the holiday next year._

_I'd also like to remind you that the first Hogsmeade visit of the year is coming up, and I'd really love to have a few Galleons to spend in the shops there—I hear it's wondrous fun._

_Give Dad and Draco my love, and of course, know that I love you too._

_Yours always,_

_Desi_

_P.S. – Another thing, Mum. Poor Anastasia is about to collapse. Can't we give the poor girl a break and limit our letters to only every couple of days?_

"Your mum again, eh?" Rosalie said beside me.

"Yeah," I said, tying the folded letter to Anastasia's leg and mentally promising her a nice treat when she got back. "Always a worrier. You couldn't tell by looking at me, but she really can be a mother hen sometimes."

We both broke out into giggles at the thought of my mother clucking around me and Draco, and then went off to our classes. I had Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, and Potions with Rosie, a good number.

In Potions, Rosie and I sat at the table next to Percy Weasley and Quidditch-obsessed Oliver Wood, and unfortunately, a lot of their stupid rambling floated right over to us.

"I do hope I don't get another sweater again," Percy was saying as I tried to focus on the bubbling, unfinished Pepperup Potion in my cauldron. "That's usually what Mother tries to do, combine my birthday with Christmas."

"Well, when did you say it was?" Wood said.

"The twenty-first," he said.

"Well, it's pretty hard not to mash it with Christmas a bit, then, isn't it?"

"Hey, Des," Rosalie whispered to me, leaning over. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," I said, intentionally making my face cool.

"Weasley's got the same birthday as you do."

"I heard, Rosie."

"That's weird."

"I figured, Rosie."

I tried to get back to my potion, stirring it in the way the book said to. It was hard to count how many stirs I had—this was usually where I completely mucked it up—

"You're stirring it wrong," said a voice over my shoulder, so close I could feel its speaker's breath on my hair.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Sorry!" he said. "It's just, you've got to add a clockwise stir every ninth counterclockwise, and you're doing it every eleventh—"

"I think I can handle making my own potion, _Weasley_," I spat like an angry cat. "Next time you sneak up on my like that, I swear I'll hex you into the middle of next week."

His ears got red. "Then I'll curse you into oblivion on Thursday. Sorry for being nice; I'll be certain not to do so in the future."

He didn't keep his word. Stupid bloody Percy Weasley.

The holidays passed. I went to Hogsmeade, I flirted and I dated, I did Binns's essays when he gave them to me once a month or so. I did normal Slytherin princess things. Mum and Dad sent me a new quill set and a brand new crushed-velvet cloak (it was brilliant; black as midnight on the outside, lurid green on the inside). Draco sent me a drawing of the two of us. He really liked to draw before his school years.

To make matters even better, Weasley did only get a sweater. Great opportunity for some smug cat-canary time. It wasn't so bad. I didn't outwardly tease him about it; though, I may have walked by him in my new cloak and twirled and swished _just_ enough to get the message across.

Overall, a good holiday.

The time after the winter break at Hogwarts is sort of like the home stretch. People don't just hang around as much, especially in the upper years, all focusing on getting up the grades that they'd let dip during that winter slump. That meant that I didn't have as many males chasing after me (at least, not as many older ones), and I had more time to work on my own marks.

One day in late April, I was falling asleep in Binns's class when I heard the ruckus of people jumping up from their seats that cued me to wake up and follow them. I did so in a daze, and I was halfway down the hall and had already met up with Rosalie before I stopped dead. "Damn!"

"What is it?" she asked.

"I forgot I need to give this essay to Binns," I said, already starting to walk back. "See you in Defense, yeah?"

I heard her agree vaguely as I rushed back to the classroom. I had been slipping a bit—needed to get this essay in before—

BAM.

I rammed into a mass of human before I could stop myself, and the two of us went flying in a flurry of pale skin and red hair, and all my papers flew from my bag right onto the floor.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" I heard his voice say. It sounded like he'd been Confunded. I scowled at him.

"Watch where you're going, Weasley!" I snapped, grabbing my things. I was lucky that my ink bottle hadn't broken. "I have better things to do than try to play dodge-the-idiot with the likes of you or your kind."

"My kind?"

I ignored him and marched up to Professor Binns's desk, paper in hand. I put it on his desk.

"My essay, sir."

He blinked. He'd obviously seen what had just happened; we'd fallen right outside of his door. "Yes, I see, Malfoy."

"Are you going to give me another assignment, sir?"

"So soon? Rather eager for such a young student," he said.

"Yes, well, the school year's going to end soon, and I'd like to get my marks up as much as I can."

"Very well, very well," he said, looking as though his interest had been piqued. It made me nervous; someone as boring as Binns shouldn't be interested in anything. "Your next essay should be an analysis of wizarding genetics."

"Excellent, sir," I said, turning to leave. Percy was, I saw, setting his things down on his desk.

"And Malfoy," he said. I turned around. "Not Wizarding genealogy—wizarding _genetics_."

"Er—all right, sir," I said, and walked out.

The essay on wizarding genetics was the hardest of the year. There were only a few books in the library that dealt with the topic. As it turned out, magic was a strong, resilient set of genes, sometimes formed out of randomness and sometimes because of distant relation to a witch or wizard. But one thing really bothered me:

As far as I could tell, there was no gene, or set of genes, defining purebloods from Muggle-borns.

I looked everywhere. Magic was the same gene for everyone.

I was confused. How could my pure blood—generations upon generations, and wizards all—be the same as that of someone born of filthy Muggles or a half-blood like Oliver Wood? It didn't make any sense. It was ludicrous. There must have been something wrong with the books. But all of them said the same thing.

I was from a long and distinguished line, but I was the same as they were.

I ran to the bathroom in my dorm and threw up.

Afterwards, I brushed my teeth and went back to my desk and did what I usually did when I was upset or confused about anything: I wrote to my father, and I explained what the books had told me. I got his reply letter three days later.

_My darling Desdemona,_

_I understand your concern, but I assure you, it is unwarranted. Purity of blood doesn't come from genes; it comes from lineage. Are regal great Danes much different than common mutts? Are thoroughbreds different than common nags, genetically speaking? Probably not. It is the attributes and affinities passed from their sires that make the difference._

_You see, my dearest of girls, it is not genetics that separates us, that makes us better than the Mudbloods and half-breeds and other riffraff. It is the nobility of our lineage._

_So do not trouble yourself. I love you, and so do Mum and Draco. We'll see you in two months, little Desi._

_Love,_

_Your father_

I didn't fully understand his reasoning, but I forced my brain to accept it. Dad was good at that, making me feel better with big words and flattery and love, even if the logistics didn't quite add up. I'd gone up to the dorm to read it with some privacy; now, I looked up from the letter and wiped away the tear that had leaked from my eye, feeling more homesick than I had in the three years since I'd started school.

I wanted to be at home. I wanted to understand. But even deeper than that, I wanted what I had always wanted, since I was old enough to know how to want: I wanted my father to hug me and tell me that it was all right, and that they were wrong.

Even when I knew in my heart that it wasn't, and that they were right.

In the last week before third year let out, I was in the Great Hall with Rosalie. That was when I heard some of the whispers, coming from behind me.

"_Everyone knows they're rotten to the core—"_

"_Imperius Curse, my arse."_

"_Puh-lease, it's not that hard to put two and two together."_

"_It's simpler than two and two. They tell the truth, they get sent to Azkaban. They lie, they get to keep their money and status. Not exactly a hard decision—"_

"Des?" I heard Rosalie say my name as though she was very far away. I blinked.

"What?"

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'm fine. Really. I think I'm gonna go up and study a bit."

I was up and walking away before she had a chance to say anything.

I got up to the dorm even faster than usual; it seems the stairs knew my need to get down to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons under the lake. I felt sick again.

This wasn't the first time I'd heard the whispers. I'd been hearing them since I'd started school—my family's name was a big deal, and I knew that people were jealous and were bound to make up accusations. But it had never really bothered me until now. Now, I began to wonder.

It did make sense. Even if my father did support…you know, _him…_I understood why he'd need to lie. I was five years old when he fell; Draco was barely walking. He needed to stay with his family. I would've done the same.

Wouldn't I?

The seeds were planted. As I took out my parchment and books and started to write the paper on genetics, it started slowly to grow.

By the time I walked up to Binns's desk in the middle of May to hand in my essay, people had begun to notice a change in me. I was starting to get a little quieter—a little less of a bully.

"Professor," I said as I put the paper on his desk. "I think…I think I learned what you were trying to teach me."

I swear I almost saw him smile.

"I'm glad, Malfoy," he said. "But I think you would've gotten it in time. You are such a bright girl."

"Thank you, sir," I said. "Do you have any other assignments for me?"

"Not one," he said. "You're practically done for the year."

I nodded, and left.

"What's happened to you?"

I had been expecting Rosalie to confront me any day. Now here she was, and five others in my posse to boot, looking at me in an odd sort of concern.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You're different," she said. "You're not talking to us as much. You're all sullen." She suddenly looked a little more worried. "Is it something we did?"

"No!" I said, a little too quickly. Then I paused and gave a laugh. "No, it's not you at all. I've just…I've been pretty busy with end-of-the-year stuff. You know how my dad is. No slacking off just 'cause it's almost summer. Plus, he said if I keep my marks up, we can go to Italy for my birthday this year, so I'm working extra hard for all that."

She smiled, looking relieved. "Yeah, I know what you mean. But, Des, you can't study all the time. Come with us to Hogsmeade this weekend. It's the last one of the year."

"I don't know…" I said. I hadn't been going to Hogsmeade for the last couple of trips. I loved it there, but it was also my gang's most likely place to assert our superiority.

"Come on!" she whined, suddenly the sweet Rosie I knew again.

"Fine," I said, flashing her a smile. "You win. I'll go."

We did go to Hogsmeade that weekend. Our first stop, as always, was the Three Broomsticks, and the long-lost taste of butterbeer was soothing and reminiscent of more complacent days. I wished I could be like them again—like the group of blood-crazed narcissists around me. I wished I could have fun again. Was this what the Sorting Hat meant, I wondered, when he said I'd do well in Gryffindor?

"Hey," Rosalie said, leaning over to me. She jerked her head over to another booth, where a slender girl and a brown-haired boy were starting to get a little close to one another.

"What about them?" I asked.

"That's Wood and his little girlfriend, Angelina somethingorother," Rosalie said with a smirk. "I think they're getting a little _too_ friendly, don't you?"

Not waiting for me to respond, she turned and looked at them. "Oy, Wood! Break it up over there!"

"Yeah," I said, barely giving it a thought. "Some people are trying to have a civilized time without you half-breeds trying to procreate over there."

There was a surge of laughter around me. Wood gave me a glare, and then he and Angelina somethingorother got up and left.

"Probably going off to disgust someone else," I said airily. Another round of laughter.

It felt good to put them down, especially since it was Wood. It felt good like a donut must feel good to a binge eater. It wasn't good for me. It wasn't going to help me. But it made me feel better.

No, I decided. That stupid old hat was wrong. I wasn't a Gryffindor, wasn't anything like those stupid, brawn-before-brains, wannabe knights in shining armor. I was a Slytherin, and I was damned proud of it.

I just hoped I would stay that way.


	5. Chapter Five: Fourth & Fifth Year

**Chapter Five: Fourth and Fifth Year**

I spent the next two years systematically lying to myself and everyone around me.

Honestly, I have nothing to say about fourth year. It was blissfully uneventful. Entering fourth year was a lot like the last year of primary school. I wasn't stupid or inconsequential, but I wasn't old enough yet to be taken seriously. At Hogwarts, it's sort of like this: if you're not studying for your O.W.L.s or stressing over your N.E.W.T. courses, you weren't taken seriously, because what could you know, if you hadn't even experienced that kind of stress? What did ickle little fourth years know yet?

I didn't mind terribly. Whenever I got into trouble, especially with the older kids or Gryffindors, that was the first thing most people assumed. I was just a stupid fourth year; I didn't know any better. It helped my case that most of the students in the school had a raging case of hormones by the time they turned fourteen, making them prone to mood swings and lashing out.

Me, I got bored whenever someone started teen-angsting, so I mostly hung out with the older kids, as usual. They were smarter, they were more intense—and they liked me. They liked me in all my pretentious, pureblood-manic glory.

They weren't bad people. A lot of people (Gryffindors, mostly, or their cutesy Hufflepuff groupies) think that being a Slytherin automatically makes you the bad guy, but that's not really true. Some of the best people I've known were Slytherins. Also, being pureblood doesn't make you a shoe-in for Slytherin. You had to love being pureblood. The Weasleys, for instance, and the Potters were both pureblood, and they had generations and generations in Gryffindor. And you could have Slytherin traits, and be put in Slytherin, and not be pureblood.

I learned that in fifth year, because in fifth year I met Katrina.

Draco got his acceptance letter in the summer of '91, on his eleventh birthday. It was in early June, before my own letter came. We held a party for him, just like we had for me. I remember how proud he looked that day, his pale little face flushed and glowing with pride. I remember how proud _I_ was, going with him to get his robes and books. He was so excited, and I was so excited for him.

My own school letter came two months later, about a month before school let back in. I opened the envelope and took out the fifth year supply list and looked it over, made sure it was all standard stuff. Then something fell out of the envelope.

I picked it up. It was a badge. It was green with a silver border, and over the snake in the center was a big P. I looked in the envelope again. Sure enough, there was another piece of paper there. I opened it; in pretty green script, it congratulated me on what I'd already deduced. The badge was a Prefect's badge. I was a Prefect.

I screamed like I'd been hit with a Cruciatus Curse.

No sooner had I finished my shriek of epic proportions than I heard the door crash open. I turned and saw my parents, breathless from running, with wands drawn.

"Desi, what is it? What's wrong?" my father panted.

"Nothing!" I cried, much louder than I'd meant to. I held up the badge. "My letter came. I'm a Prefect!"

"Oh, Desi!" Mum exclaimed, stowing her wand and coming over to me in one swift motion, gathering me into her arms. "That's wonderful, darling! Just like your father!"

Dad put his own wand away and walked over with us, grinning.

"I didn't know you were a Prefect," I said.

"Oh, yes," he said. He hugged me. "Congratulations, sweetheart. You'll be an excellent Prefect."

It didn't sound like a prediction; it was a statement. I was determined not to prove it wrong, I thought, as I ran to show Draco my badge.

Rosalie was pleased with my becoming a Prefect, although I could tell she was jealous. We rode as we always did with our crew on the train to Hogwarts. Draco had gone off with some of his friends; Mum had fussed over him so much at King's Cross that he'd scurried away as soon as he could, so I hadn't seen him since then.

We got up to the castle on the carriages, as usual, and went into the Great Hall. There was a rush of air as the enormous oak doors opened, and my heart squeezed; it was like the castle was welcoming us home.

We were already socializing with the people we'd lost touch with over the summer by the time I heard the oak doors open a second time behind me.

"Hey, Des," Rosalie said. She was sitting across from me, and I looked up from my conversation with one of the fourth years in our group.

"Hmm? What?"

She nodded toward the door. "She's no first year," she said.

She was right. I turned to look; the first years were filing in behind big, burly Hagrid, but among them was someone different. She was a head and a half taller than the eleven-year-olds around her, and she was wearing fifth year robes. She had a dark sort of auburn hair, almost as dark as mine, and olive skin. She walked rigidly, as if she was mortified of being around so many first years and she wanted to get over the ordeal as quickly as possible.

"Must be a transfer," Rosalie said.

"Yeah," I said. "Must be."

"Poor thing. I'd just die if I had to get sorted with first years this year," she said. She smiled. "Hey, isn't that your brother near them?"

I also caught sight of Draco's white head and grinned. "Yeah. He must be nervous as hell."

We watched as McGonagall put the ratty old Sorting Hat onto the heads of each student in turn. I waited. Bones…Granger…MacDougal…

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Draco stepped up the stool. No sooner had the Hat touched his head than it had shouted: "SLYTHERIN!"

There was a tide of applause around me. I gestured to Draco and he came and sat next to me. I hugged him and said, "Congratulations, Drake!"

He looked completely, incandescently happy.

A few more names passed. Then, McGonagall called, "Potter, Harry!"

A hushed shock fell through the crowd. Of course we knew who Harry Potter was—_everyone_ knew. He was the one who beat…well, you know. Him.

A boy stepped up. He was a tiny wisp of a thing; he didn't even look eleven. He had scruffy-looking black hair and big, circular glasses. His clothes hung off him, like they were several sizes too big. And, even from our place, we could see the scar that marked him.

"_That_'s Harry Potter?" I heard Rosalie say.

"He doesn't look like much," I said. And he really didn't.

Harry Potter sat on the chair almost as long as I had, but the decision ended up being Gryffindor. I rolled my eyes. Too bad. Slytherin could've used some positive light.

A few names later came, "Sanborn, Katrina!"

The fifth year girl stepped up.

I felt myself stiffen in interest, something also done by most of the people around me. Transfers were few and far between in Hogwarts. The Hat deliberated for a moment, then:

"SLYTHERIN!"

I cheered with everyone else, then made a friendly gesture for her to sit near me. She did, taking the seat on the side Draco wasn't on.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem," I said. "I'm Desi Malfoy."

"Katrina Sanborn," she said. I detected an accent this time.

Across from us, I heard Rosalie whine, "Merlin's balls, _another_ Weasley?"

"You're American," I said.

"Yeah," she said. "I transferred from the Salem Witches' Institute."

"I hear that's a pretty good school," Rosalie came in. She flashed a smile. "For an American place, anyway."

Katrina laughed. It was a remarkably pleasant sound, and wonderfully full, like large wind chimes in a thunderstorm. It complimented her voice, which was a warm contralto.

"Yeah, it's pretty good, I guess," she said with a shrug. "All female, though. And I've had my heart set on Hogwarts since I was ten, so it's pretty good to be here."

"Where are you from?" Rosalie asked.

"Baltimore," she said. "It's in Maryland."

We gave her question mark looks.

"It's a little south of New York."

"Oh!" we both said. "Lovely."

"Anyway," she said, "I'm so glad I got into Slytherin. I was terrified I would get put in Hufflepuff. I mean, I'm sure there nice people, but come on…they don't look like a very interesting bunch, do they?"

I decided, as we listened to Dumbledore's usual speech about the rules (this year it was added that the third floor corridor on the right-hand side was forbidden), that I liked this Katrina Sanborn. I liked her quite a bit.

The year took off. Snape assigned me to look after Katrina, to make sure she was well-settled by the time the winter holiday came around. I certainly didn't mind; Katrina made for interesting company, and for the most part, she and Rosalie got along. Rosie was jealous, though; she tried to hide it, but I could always see right through her. She would have to get over it. It wasn't my fault that Katrina was more interesting, and certainly more charismatic, than she was.

I still bullied. I still asserted my own superiority to everyone in the school. I still did all the things I'd done since I'd started school. But now I didn't call anyone Mudblood. I wasn't better than them for being pureblood. I was just better by the sheer fact that I was me.

We hadn't even been in school two weeks when Rosalie came running up to Katrina and me as we were walking to Charms, which we'd ended up having together.

"Hey, Des," she said, breathless. "You hear about Potter?"

"What about Potter?" I asked.

Her face went into its default sneer, as it always did when we were talking about people who were of lower status than us. She took her usual place at my left, with Katrina on my right.

"Well, Draco told me that he was just playing around during flying class," she said. I quirked an eyebrow; no doubt I'd be hearing this story from Draco later. "He lured Potter up with this idiot kid's Remembrall, and Potter caught it, and McGonagall made him Seeker of the Gryffindor team!"

"Ha! First year on a team—it's ridiculous!" I laughed. "Only old McGonagall would be batty enough to pull a stunt like that, with the Slytherin match coming up. Oh, I'm gonna love seeing Wood's face when they lose 'cause they've got an idiot _first year_ for a Seeker!"

The three of us burst into giggles at the prospect.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was getting more boring by the year. No one had been able to keep the teaching position longer than a year or two, and skinny Professor Quirinus Quirrell didn't seem like he was going to break the tradition. In the meantime, we were supposed to pass our O.W.L.s after sitting through a year of trying to decipher his annoyingly prominent stutter. I got the impression that he really did know what he was talking about; he was just nervous. Nervous and boring. Seriously, even Weasley looked like he had trouble staying awake.

Even in the beginning of the year, O.W.L.s are the thing on every fifth year's mind. I was determined to get all Os, and it showed in the way I acted. It was like third year all over again as our classes got harder in preparation for the big test. Snape's occlumency lessons went from three times a week to once to accommodate my ever-hectic schedule, and I stopped dating as much, keeping some boyfriends up to three months at a time.

Being a Prefect had to come before the old things, too. The other fifth-year Slytherin Prefect was a boy called Augustan Williams. I hadn't known much of Williams before then, but he was just as intelligent as any Slytherin, although he sometimes lacked in common sense. I didn't mind; I had enough smarts for the both of us, and he was rather attractive, anyway.

Of course, the fact that I had a good-looking and somewhat intelligent Prefect partner was rather dampened by the fact that Percy Weasley had also been appointed as one. I tried not to linger on the fact, although Rosalie, Katrina and I did have some fun teasing him about it. We couldn't help it—"Weasel Prefect" had too nice a ring to it to pass up.

We went to the first Quidditch match of the year, Gryffindor at Slytherin, all smugness at knowing that the game was going to go without a struggle to our team. We were wrong. Potter caught the Snitch—with his mouth. It was a freak, accidental victory.

But that was when we started giving Potter some attention. Draco gave him even more. What I had with Percy Weasley, he was developing with Harry Potter in spades.

"Stupid _Potter,_" he'd spit as he sat down near us in the common room.

"What's wrong, Drake?" I said, all sisterly concern.

"He's not even that good! He's stupid and lucky, that's all!"

This would be the part where I'd shake my head and pat him on the shoulder. "Then don't let him get to you, Drake. _You_ know you're better than him; that's all you need. What you _don't_ need is some idiot like Potter screwing up your very first year. Give your sister a hug, now, and get up to your dorm and do your homework."

I told Mum and Dad I'd take care of Draco. I was telling the truth.

That was the year the troll got into the dungeons at Halloween. We'd gone to the feast with everyone else, albeit late (Katrina, for all her charms, had the misfortune of having both a love for naps _and_ a penchant for wanting her makeup to look just right), but since it was a night of frivolity and we were less than ten minutes late, all was forgiven, and our arrival was simply deemed "fashionably late."

The Great Hall was decked out fabulously, as it was every year. The entire place was a sea of black and orange, and jack-o-lanterns sat on every place they would fit. I knew that ten minutes before we arrived, thousands of live bats had flown up from the walls to the ceiling, signaling the beginning of the feast.

I'd skipped lunch that day to study for a test in Herbology, and I was just helping myself to a large portion of roast chicken and fries when I saw a flash of robes and turban pass us. Professor Quirrell was sprinting across the hall, turban all askew, in absolute terror. When he reached Dumbledore, he had barely enough time to gasp, "Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know," before he fainted.

Well, naturally, all hell broke loose.

Dumbledore shot purple firecrackers into the air to bring everybody down. "Prefects," he said, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

I snapped to my feet, seeing Chris Williams doing the same some ten students down the table, along with the sixth and seventh year Prefects in other places. "I'll take the first years!" I called to them. They nodded; herding first years wasn't exactly a desirable task. "Stick with me!" I turned my full attention to the flock of eleven-year-olds, my nervous-looking little brother included, that was crowding around me. "Come on, then, first years, follow me!"

I led them out of the hall among the other twenty-three Prefects (two for fifth, sixth, and seventh year in each house) each leading a group of their own. Percy, I saw out of the corner of my eye, was leading the first years of his own house, and I had to say he was doing a nice job keeping their attention.

Once we got into the halls, it was easier to manage, being that the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw common rooms and dormitories were in towers and those of Hufflepuff and Slytherin were in the dungeons. Dungeons, I remembered with a slight turn of my stomach—Quirrell said the troll was in the dungeons. Were we walking straight toward it? Even if we were, I comforted myself with the thought that one stupid troll wasn't a match for two entire houses of Hogwarts.

We split off from the Hufflepuffs as they turned to go to their own dorms, and then it was only a short walk to the entrance to our own. We went inside, and there were several cries of relief and many first years talking about the troll.

"God," I heard Katrina say as she caught up to me. She wove her arm through mine nervously. "I thought for sure we'd run into it. Pretty lucky, huh?"

"Well, apparently, it was Potter."

"What do you mean, it was Potter?"

"Potter and Weasley," Rosalie informed me as we sat in Potions, learning about the differences between the Antidote for Common Poisons and the Antidote for Uncommon Poisons.

"_Which_ Weasley, Rosie? There're sixteen octillion of them," I sneered.

"The little one," she said. "Not the twins. What the hell was it? Don?"

"Ron," Percy said behind me.

"Did we ask you?" I snapped at him.

He rolled his eyes and turned back to his own cauldron. Rosalie snickered.

"What were you saying?" I asked.

"Right. Anyway, evidently the little Granger girl decided she was tough enough to handle the troll, and Potter and Weasley went after her to save her or something—you know how those Gryffies are, they have to rescue _everyone_—and they got lucky and somehow managed to knock the troll out."

I blinked at her.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"So they just got lucky," I said with a snort. "Seems to be a recurring theme in Potter's life."

I wouldn't learn until several years later just how right I was.

The winter that year came early and brutal to Hogwarts. The frost was on the ground by early November, and we had our first heavy snows later that month. As usual, right around my birthday, the letters begging me to come home started up again. I'd kept my promise and gone home in my fourth year (and gotten a beautiful kit to decorate my dorm with for my birthday as well as a dragon skin jacket for Christmas), but because of some conflicts with Dad's work, the trip to Venice, Italy was called off. So of course, that was what they lured me in with this year, the trip and the promise of birthday and Christmas presents and warmer weather. So I went with them.

That was how I met Paolo.

We arrived in Venice the day after break started. We'd left early the morning after Draco and I had gotten back, to maximize our time. I loved Italy, and spoke fluent Italian (Mum had insisted that, when I was little, I'd learned multiple languages, including Italian, French, Latin, Japanese, and so many others, so that her baby girl would be well-cultured), so it was really an excellent vacation spot for me. The canals were beautiful in the wintertime, and I loved that we could be there for my birthday.

We were in a small but well-reputed wizarding café, looking at the different kinds of trinkets we had, when I noticed a boy looking at me from across the room. I was used to this kind of flirting by now. I exchanged glances with him for a good ten minutes—the standard catch-your-eye-then-look-down-and-blush-like-I-hadn't-meant-for-you-to-see routine—before I saw him get up and walk over to me.

"_Salve_," he said with a smile. _Hello_.

"_Ciao_," I replied. _Hi_.

Now that he was closer to me, I could see that he was just a little taller than me, and he had black hair with big, bright blue eyes and a pretty, heart-shaped face. He was dressed well, also; Italians were always the best dressers, short only of the French.

"_Come ti chiami?_" I asked him his name.

"Paolo Cacciatore," he said."

"_Il mio nome e' Desdemona_," I said. My name is Desdemona. Quickly, I added, "_Io sono inglese_." I am English.

"Really?" he said, in English. "I never would have guessed. Your Italian is beautiful."

"You speak English?" I asked unnecessarily. I was delighted.

"Yes, I speak English. Well, a little bit," he said, with an adorably cocky smile.

It was pure romance from there on. We loved in the way that only teenagers under time restraints can love. He was seventeen, and a pureblood wizard, which made him an instant hit with my family. We would often walk along the canals of Venice, seeking small, inconspicuous places where we could be alone.

Then, once, just a few days before we left, Paolo and I were sitting in my family's suite overlooking Venice. Mum and Dad had taken Draco down to do a little last-minute shopping and had left Paolo and me to have some alone time and say goodbye.

"I will never forget you, Desdemona," he said in that perfect accent of his.

I smiled. "I know."

Then he was kissing me—oh, was he kissing me! We'd had some pretty heavy make-out sessions before then, but never like this. I loved it. He slid his hand up my designer skirt. I tingled with excitement. I didn't try to stop him; I wanted this. I was so tired of being the only girl in Slytherin who hadn't had sex because I wanted a guy worth my while (not the whole love-and-honor thing that Gryffies rave about; just a guy who was more worthy of my time). I'd always heard them talking about it like it was a big secret that I wasn't in on. Now I would be. It was my turn.

And when it was over, when we were lying there panting on the sofa, I could only think one thought:

_Well. That was a whole lot of hype about nothing._

We left three days later via Floo Network. Paolo was there to kiss me goodbye, and I even smiled at him as I stood in the fireplace. I wouldn't forget about him; I'd write him letters on and off through the rest of my school years. But I never really saw him again.

Turns out sex is like potions; the more you practice at it, the better results you have, and the more fun it is to do. Case in point: Augustan Williams, my fellow fifth-year Prefect. We'd known each other since the beginning of the year, but we'd really started getting into the flirting after the winter holiday. He was an adorable flirter; the big joke was that he was madly in love with me, but I wouldn't give him the time of day. Of course, that was a big pretense. In secret, we were doing it at least three times a week in the Prefect's bathroom (which is, by the way, the best bathroom in the world, hands down).

What can I say? Latter-year Hogwarts students have big stress. Big stress means big stress release.

And that's what sex became for me. I wasn't a slut; I was a man-user. There was a difference, and all of Hogwarts knew it. The only thing males were good for was a little conversation and an orgasm (if they were lucky).

Meanwhile, the mad rush to cram enough O.W.L. material into our heads begun. The end of fifth year was a blur of studying, classes, more studying, Occlumency lessons, studying, and lack of sleep.

"Oh, jeez, we never learned Banishing Charms at Salem!" Katrina squeaked as we sat, hovering over our textbooks, in our dorm. Rosalie was out with one of her own many boyfriends; we all had similar attitudes about males.

"It's all right, it's not that hard, I can teach you in a sec," I said absently, my nose in the middle of a book about the history of dueling. I sipped at the tea I'd made; she, ever the American, had gone on the hunt for some coffee earlier and gotten it.

"Hey, Des," she asked, sounding slightly more anxious now. "What's a Mudblood?"

Well, that got my nose out of my book, all right.

"You…you don't know?" I asked.

"No," she said. "But somebody called a fourth year one today, and it's kind of confusing. I didn't want to ask Rosalie; I didn't think she'd understand."

Figuring they were just lax on class standards in America, I sipped my tea again and said, "'Mudblood' is a derogatory term for someone with Muggle parents."

She blinked. "Someone like me, then?"

I stared at her for what seemed like ages.

"What do you mean?"

"Des, my parents are lawyers. _Muggle_ lawyers," she added, seeing that I was about to open my mouth and argue that there were, indeed, magical attorneys as well.

"I…I didn't know that," I said lamely.

"Well, you never asked," she said.

She was right. I wracked my brain; I never asked her about her parents, or if I did, she must have just said lawyers. I'd just assumed. She was in Slytherin, wasn't she?

She bit her lip in that way she did when she was worried. "Oh, please don't tell me you're like them! I don't want to lose my friends just because of my parents!" she said. Her eyes were quickly filling.

"Of course not," I said. I couldn't believe I was saying it. "There's something I should tell you."

And I did tell her. I told her about my first years at Hogwarts, about the essay Binns had assigned me, about everything I'd learned about genetics and equality.

"So, I don't really care, you see," I said, but then I quickly added, "I mean, I could never _marry_ a Muggle-born like my Aunt 'Dromeda did or anything, but I don't mind it."

Katrina looked visibly relieved. "Thanks, Desi. You're a really good friend, you know that?"

I blinked. No one had ever told me that before. "Yeah, I guess."

"Have you told your parents you feel this way?" she asked.

"Merlin's beard, no," I said. "We're, erm…we're pretty involved in the whole blood snobbery thing."

"Guess it's just as well," she said. "I have something I keep from my parents, too. I think I'm gay."

She said it like it was almost something normal someone would keep from their parents.

I blinked.

"What, like, _gay_ gay?"

"Are there different levels?" she asked. We laughed. "I think so. I mean, I like girls, that much is true. And I don't think I'm into guys that much. It's just not all that appealing to me."

"Are you gonna tell your parents?" I asked.

She gave a chuckle. "Probably not. Seriously, I'm pretty sure my mom would shit puppies if she found out her baby girl's a homo."

I choked into my tea. We laughed for a long time at the imagery.

"So we both have things we have to hide," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess we do."

We sat our O.W.L.s near the end of the year, on a bright spring day. It's a rule of big tests: they always have to occur on days you'd rather be doing something else. But the written portion wasn't so hard, and the practical was nothing that my pretty wand (elder, ashwinder ash, 13", gorgeous coloration) couldn't handle.

The end of the O.W.L.s was like a breath of fresh air for the fifth years. All that we had to worry about now were the results, which wouldn't come until the summer, so we were free to do as we pleased.

Slytherin _should_ have won the House Cup that year, but Gryffindor snuck up for the win using Harry Potter, who turned out to be their secret weapon more and more. Granted, he did get some rock from behind a bunch of teacher defenses. Big deal.


End file.
